


Quantum Entanglements

by Reddwarfer



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexuality, Childhood to Adulthood, First Kiss, Growing Up Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Making Up, References to a creepy teacher, verbal fight leading to a physical fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddwarfer/pseuds/Reddwarfer
Summary: (AU) When Rodney's six years old--and awaiting death via principal and his very angry mother--he meets John and everything changes.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 10
Kudos: 81





	Quantum Entanglements

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DJIN7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJIN7/gifts).



> Originally written: 5/26/2009  
> Beta-readers: djin7 and evaporate.  
> For: djin7 for helping me through the last year of absolute suck and fail. Also, for telling me to go for it when I mentioned contemplating an AU in which Rodney and John grow up with each other. For preventing me from writing unhappy endings. And for beta reading a fic you always knew was supposed to be for you. I love you, babe.
> 
> Notes: Rodney's internal and external dialogue can be a bit sexist and ableist.

This is how it starts.

~VI~

Rodney shuffles into the small area near Principal Johnson's office. It's his fifth visit so far, and he's only been at the school a month. It isn't fair, but he doubts his mother will believe him this time any more than she believed him the last four.

The only difference this time is he's not alone. There's a boy sitting across from him with impossibly messy hair, a rather large book, and a cast on his left arm.

The chairs are just as uncomfortable as before, making his back ache because they don't promote good posture. His feet dangle, and he kicks them in impatience. A glance at the clock tells him he's missing snack time. The only saving grace is that he knows they're serving fruit cups today. There's citrus in them.

In lieu of boredom, he instead decides to attempt conversation, knowing very well that it will likely end badly. Other kids don't like him—which is fine because he doesn't like other kids—and he does nothing to change this. Morons, the lot of them. Still, talking to the idiot with the broken arm has to be better than contemplating the many, many ways his mother may punish him.

Before he decides how to start, the other boy beats him to it.

With a wide grin, he asks, "What're ya in for?" Rodney blinks. "I'm John," the boy adds as an afterthought.

"I informed what passes for the educator in my class how very wrong she was and she thought I was being rude! It's not my fault she probably got her degree by sending away enough tops from a cereal box." Rodney frowns. He's six now and he has years of this tripe ahead of him. If this is the best public education has to offer, perhaps he should persuade his mother to allow him to home-school himself. He can so do a better job; he's sure of it. "You?"

John laughs. "I threw a paper airplane at my teacher's head and knocked off his toupee."

"On purpose?" he asks, wondering if he finally found someone worth talking to for more than a minute.

Giving another lazy grin, John replies, "Of course."

"Huh." John knows intuitive physics. Rodney finds himself second-guessing his decision that there was no one worth being friends with at this school. He nods his head toward John. "So, how'd you manage that?"

"Fell out of a tree," John says, lifting up his cast. "Cool, eh?"

Then again, Rodney thinks, maybe John _is_ a moron. Since when was breaking a bone cool? The memory of _that_ hospital visit still makes Rodney shudder.

"Wanna sign it?" John asks, pulling a marker out of his pocket. Rodney takes a moment to consider, then he's on his feet, snatching the marker out of John's hand.

He thinks for a moment, then writes Newton's law of universal gravitation, and three bold lines underneath it, in big blocky script on the middle of the cast. Rodney can hear his mom and, presumably, John's, talking the way two parents do when they're commiserating. Since she's not yelling at him, he leaves her to it.

When he's finished, he gives back the pen and watches for the reaction with a hopeful face. John looks down at his cast and laughs.

~VII~

It turns out, much to Rodney's delight, that Principal Johnson wants both John and Rodney out of the school just as much as they want to be gone. He scribbles the name of the nearest school for the gifted on two pieces of paper and passes one each to their mothers.

Their mothers form a friendship that has less to do with actually liking each other and more to do with complaining to someone that understands. Rodney is just happy that he's going to school with his best (only) friend and he's no longer in the presence of total incompetence. Although, Rodney thinks as he scrawls notes in his physics books, teachers who are only somewhat incompetent aren't all that much better.

"Hey," John says as he sits down next to Rodney at lunch. They're the only two students at the table. He wants to think that it's because he's seven (and four months)—John's eight—and the rest of the students are at least ten, but he knows it's not true. Everyone wants to sit with John, and no one him, but his friend doesn't even act as if he knows any of this, and sits with him religiously. It's almost enough to make him want to give John his mint condition Spiderman #1 comic.

Almost.

Rodney looks up and grins. "Hey." There's pudding today, so he's relatively content.

"I just got the new Superman comic," John says, eyes bright. "He's the best superhero _ever_."

"How can you even think that?" Rodney replies, frowning, "Batman is far better than Superman... it's not even close."

" _Batman?_ John raises an eyebrow. "What's so great about Batman? Superman has x-ray vision, super strength, eidetic memory; he can _fly._ "

"Only as a consequence of being lucky enough to land on a planet with a yellow sun. On his own planet, Superman would have been some lame-o," Rodney reasons. "Batman, on the other hand, is _human_ , defeats just as many villains (who are totally better than Superman's), and he does it with his not-so-insignificant intelligence and strength... Plus, his costume is so much cooler."

"Batman's just a loser who would rather get girl cooties than solve crime," John replies testily. "Superman can move planets!"

"Oh, yeah," Rodney says, rolling his eyes, "and there're no continuity issues going on there…" Rodney pauses, then says, "do you think they'll ever stop writing like they're making things up as they go along?"

John shrugs. "I try not to think about plot holes too much. Kinda kills the fun of it."

Strangely enough, Rodney agrees. There're only a few things that make Rodney dislike his overwhelmingly brilliant mind. Comic book logic is one of them. The knowledge that he _could_ make a completely functioning Batman utility belt, but doesn't have the means, is another.

Any further arguments are forestalled by lunch being over.

"I'll admit you're right," John says, idly, as they exit the room.

"What's the catch?" Rodney's suspicious nature is well-founded, honed to perfection when John begins exchanges like these.

John grins. "If you can go a week without making any of our teachers cry, I'll stand up during lunch and admit you're right."

Rodney doesn't skip a beat. "Deal."

Not only does Rodney not make it a week, the very next day his science teacher quits in a flurry of tears. John laughs at him scowling throughout lunch, but still offers Rodney his pudding.

~VIII~

"What's the big deal?" John asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. They're making their way back from Boy Scouts to Rodney's house for dinner. He and John had been told, again, that winning badges is not a "competition", but a "process". This, Rodney fumes, is what comes from letting hippies infiltrate the system. (At least, that's what his dad says.)

Rodney rolls his eyes. "It's _Mensa_ , John. The fact that you're even asking the question seriously lowers _my_ IQ just by being near you. Come on, please. We can be the youngest members in our school, maybe even the state. Only _one_ of our teachers is a member."

"Still don't see why I need to do it, too."

"Because," Rodney says, aggravation evident, "when I become a world-famous scientist, I want to be able to invite the best of my fellow Mensa members to hear my Nobel Prize speech and impress upon them how lucky they are to be in my presence."

John stares at him for a moment before he smirks. "So this is what it sounds like to meet a future megalomaniac. Next thing you know, you'll be plotting the unmasking and downfall of Batman."

"Well, if I became a powerful super villain using my admittedly large mind for crime, I suppose you'll try to stop me with undoubtedly brainless heroics," Rodney says, with an odd sort of delight.

"We'll be arch-nemeses for life."

Rodney laughs, nudges John with his elbow. "This glorious life of trying to outwit each other can't begin if we don't do the test."

Sighing, John looks away. "You should do it. You'll get the top score, I bet."

"You have to do it, too," Rodney insists, frowning, becoming serious once more. "If you don't, I'll be distracted and only score enough to pass, but not excel."

"That's not fair, Rodney," John replies. "Manipulation isn't going to help."

"How about bribing?" Rodney asks, perking up. He's wearing John down and he knows it. "Will bribery work?"

"Depends on what you're offering," John says, smiling a little. "And no comic will cover this."

Damn. Rodney thinks for a moment. "I'll owe you."

John looks at him with unabashed skepticism. "That's not bribery, Rodney, that's bullshit."

"Language," Rodney chides. John's older brother is a bad influence. "Anyhow, I promise you that I'll owe you one string-free favour."

"You'll do anything for me?" John asks, eyebrows arching up. "Anything at all?"

"Of course," Rodney replies immediately.

A month later, they're both officially in Mensa, and it's anticlimactic for both of them. Rodney only gets a week's worth of fun lording it over his teachers before he's forbidden to mention it again and John has a crumpled sheet of paper in the bottom of his desk with Rodney's promise, Rodney's bloody fingerprint (which, by the way, he complains about for weeks) and Rodney's signature.

However, they both grudgingly agree to hold off plans to become arch-nemeses in favour of jointly engaging in a bid for world domination.

Their plans continue to fail.

~X~

The flyers for the annual Soap Box Derby are plastered all over town. Everyone seems to be talking about it as if it were important and not just a phenomenal waste of time and finite resources. The sad thing, Rodney muses, is that their town's so lame it's not even an official All-American Soap Box Derby. Not that Rodney cares. He's Canadian, something that John takes delight in reminding him about whenever they partake in any Americana. Rodney doesn't remember Canada much; he's lived here since just after his little sister was born.

"You want to hit the dime store? This week's comics should be in," Rodney asks, looking at John.

"Sure," John says, grinning tiredly. They'd stayed up way too late last night arguing over whether creating a light saber was a scientific possibility, and what could presumably be used to fuel the scale model of the Millennium Falcon, which Rodney vows to build before he dies.

Rodney spends most of his nights over at John's house, specifically in a tent in the backyard. His parents still haven't forgiven him for not going with his sister to spend the summer with his grandparents in Canada anymore. He hasn't gone since he met John and his parents know it's not worth the fight. So, Rodney figures, it's only fair that he stays away as much as possible.

John's parents are like his in many ways and like it when Rodney comes over because it means he's keeping John occupied. They only have another few years of this and then they have plans to live in a mansion to put Bruce Wayne's to shame, complete with a fully functioning Bat Cave and a butler named Alfred.

Then they pass Bobby Shrover's house and hear all sorts of noise coming from the open garage.

"Hey," John says, eying the pile of semi-organised debris with which Bobby is tinkering.

"John," Bobby says in greeting, "McKay," he adds like it's a dirty word. "What are you guys doing?"

"Going to the store," Rodney replies dismissively, attempting to continue, but John shoots him a glance, and he stops and says instead, "Do you need help bringing that down to the dump?"

Bobby scowls at them, which makes Rodney grin in triumph. "I'm working on my Soap Box car," he says moodily, "and I'm going to win. I'm just waiting for dad to get back with the paint."

There are so many flaws in Bobby's design that Rodney doesn't even know where to begin. John's smiling, too, like he knows what Rodney's thinking. There's nothing aerodynamic about the design. The wind resistance alone will add several seconds of drag. He opens his mouth to say something, but he notices a flash of longing across John's face and almost bites his tongue to keep it still.

"You'll crash out in three seconds, tops," John says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Bobby frowns for a second before a mean smile curls on his face. "What would you know? You're not in the race. Why was that? Oh, right. Your dad wouldn't help you. At least _my dad_ spends more than five minutes a week with me."

John tenses but says nothing and Rodney frowns. He wants to make Bobby pay for upsetting John, but doesn't know what quite to do. Just last week, Steve Cartwell took his worn copy of _Relativity: The Special and General Theory_ —with two years of his own hand-written notes—and tossed it in the mud. John had shoved his bag in Rodney's hands and tackled Steve to the ground, coming away with a cut over his eye and a smug grin. Steve still has another four weeks in a wrist brace and the yellow remains of two black eyes.

Then it comes to him. Any monkey can push trash on wheels down an inclined plane, but it takes someone with skills to build something brilliant, to understand how to increase its velocity. His mind is awash in vectors and designs.

"Not only is John in the race," Rodney says, voice harsh and arrogant, "but his car is exponentially better than yours… and that means 'a lot', by the way, idiot."

John stares at him for a few moments and Rodney stares back, wordlessly telling him not to worry. Then, John smiles, slow and easy, says, "Yep."

They walk away without giving Bobby another chance to respond, too busy gloating in victory. They both decide to get congratulatory ice cream with their comics, eating them on the way back to Rodney's.

"You do have a plan, right?" John says, arms behind his head as they stare up at the clouds.

Rodney snorts. "Of course I do. I'll take care of the design. You decide on paint."

"Cool."

John sends his application one day before the deadline and Rodney creates secret plans that will make this soapbox car the best thing ever.

"Can I see it?" John says through the garage door where Rodney's working.

Rodney wipes the sweat off his face and rolls his eyes. "No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"I'll give you my copy of Batman sixty-six!"

Rodney thinks for a moment. "No. No. What's that word I'm looking for? Right, no!"

"Please?"

"Shut up or I'm painting this to look like Aquaman."

"You wouldn't," John says, voice unsure.

"Wouldn't I?"

"Fine. Are you almost done?"

Rodney sighs.

Two weeks later, and a day before the race, Rodney finishes even though he seriously considered punching John on more than one occasion. He'd barely slept and he gave up two weeks worth of allowance—his comic book money—to buy a helmet, but he's finished and John's going to win.

The day of the race, John's excitement is palpable. John's grinning and Rodney's smug.

"Remember," Rodney says, just before John starts his heat, "pull this when you pass the big oak tree." John agrees easily, not knowing what it does, only knowing that Rodney promises that it will be brilliant.

Rodney's beaming when he watches as John reaches and pulls at the exact right moment, and then John's not just speeding down the hill, he's flying.

And then, he's crashing. Rodney races to where the Soap Box is a mess near a store window. John stumbles out of the rubble with biggest grin on his face, even as he's cradling his arm. "Awesome." His eyes are bright as he asks, "Can you fix this so I can do it again?"

It should only take him two days to fix the damage, which Rodney promises to do as soon as they're not grounded.

This time, Rodney writes the formula he used to determine the acceleration of John's soapbox car down the hill on John's cast.

~XI~

It's just three weeks before the school year starts when John shows up at his house. That's not what's unusual. His mother often complains that he and John are joined at the hip. It's that John shows up at ten to midnight.

"Hey," John says as if he wasn't just crawling through Rodney's open window. He has a lost expression on his face, the sort that leaves Rodney with a jittery belly and hands that don't know what to do.

Rodney scoots over on the bed and John crawls in next to him. As soon as John's settled, Rodney blurts, "Not that I care that you're here, but why are you here? How did you get here? Do your parents know? Do mine? Did you run away? You ran away, didn't you? Do you think my parents will adopt you? Do you want my parents to adopt you? Because—"

"Shut up, Rodney," John says in exasperation. "I have to tell you something."

"What?" Rodney asks. "Is it bad? It's bad, isn't it? You're not dying are you? You _are_. Is there a cure? If not, I'll find one. I'll even study at a medical school with the rest of the witch doctors and learn voodoo. I swear."

"Rodney," John says, and Rodney clamps his mouth shut. "It's my dad…"

Oh, that's never good. John's dad is only around once in a while, and when he is, it always leaves John upset for days. Rodney's spent more than a few weeks of allowance cheering John up.

"I'm moving."

Wait. What? Rodney can't even breathe for a second. His best friend can't go. He can't leave. "New job?" he manages to choke out.

John stares at him bemusedly for a moment then he shakes his head. "We're not moving. I am. Dad thinks that I should be in some accelerated school. Something about this school not being good enough."

And this puts him at ease a little. If it's a school thing, he has no doubt he'll be accepted anywhere John's going. "I'll come with you."

It's when John's expression doesn't brighten that Rodney's belly clenches unpleasantly. "It a lot of money."

After that, neither of them speaks. Rodney's parents aren't poor, but they're not going to throw money at things like John's dad will.

Eventually, they fall asleep, waking hours later to the sound of John and Rodney's moms yelling in both anger and relief.

They spend every waking minute they can with each other until the day John's father shows up in a company car to drive him away. In hindsight, Rodney knows this wasn't the best idea. It only makes him feel John's absence more completely.

He starts school alone for the first time since he was five. No one speaks to him. His reputation apparently precedes him because the few people that don't know him already avoid him like the plague.

Lunch is almost unbearable. He hunches over his sandwich and tries not to hear the sounds of Todd Mathews call him a loser, and tries not to cry.

By the end of the day, tears drying on his cheeks, he vows never to let someone get to him again. He shows up to school the next day with a scowl on his face. First period, he destroys Kelly Shaw's composition during peer review. Second period, he spends twenty minutes explaining why Mark Rowe's assessment of the cause of the world wars are wrong, wrong, so incredibly, devastatingly wrong. Rodney doesn't even bother to wait for a classmate during science, and zeros in on his teacher, picking apart her work until she stares at him with red-rimmed eyes and sends him to the office.

Rodney smiles unkindly and says, "I promise not to do that again as long as they promise to stop being incompetent morons."

When he gets home, he finds a letter on his bed from John to him. It's postmarked from before John left. His eyes quickly scan the first page, which is an address to where John's moving. The second page only contains two lines of John's tidy scrawl and his lips twist as he tries to smile and frown at the same time.

_Try not to make Mrs. Johnson cry; it'll lead to the dark side. Though with you, everything leads to the dark side._

It doesn't take long for word to spread that Rodney's "protector" is gone. One week after John's move, Rodney finds himself stumbling home with a bloody nose and busted lip. Rodney holds his head up defiantly as he gets pummeled, insulting his tormentors loudly and in detail the whole time.

Nine days later, it happens again. Rodney throws himself into his personal studies, but refuses the opportunity to promote to the next grade. Doing that, he knows, is admitting that John's not coming back.

He can't do that.

"Rodney," his sister says, knocking at his door as she walks inside. "Can I come in?"

He looks up from his notes and sighs. "Sure, sure. I'm busy, though, so don't waste my time."

"I'm worried about you," Jeannie says, sitting down on his bed. "You haven't done anything but study for months."

It takes a few moments for him to compose himself, but he manages. "What am I supposed to do? Chum around with the kids that beat me up for existing? Have lunch with my peers that need me to constantly dumb down everything so they can follow along? Interact with Michael Raddley, who's so insanely jealous of my achievements and intelligence that he sabotaged my science project? Let's face it, Jeannie. No one likes me. I like no one. I have no friends. I'm fine. I just want to focus on my education and get out of here as soon as possible."

"Oh, Mer," she says. Only she's allowed to call him that and only when no one else is around. She hugs him, gingerly, and leaves. She doesn't offer to sit with him at lunch, even though they go to the same school and he doesn't blame her. At least one of them deserves to be happy.

He and John still exchange letters. His response to the first one was a twelve-page treatise on the dark side and its practical applications in modern society.

John replies to that with two pages explaining exactly what is wrong with Rodney's brain. He spends the next two days laughing abruptly at all the wrong times just thinking about.

Their letters are like their conversations, about nothing at all. John doesn't mention his school or his classes and Rodney doesn't mention the bullies or what he's building for the end-of-year science project, because he knows, distantly, it will be one of those things he'll laugh about when he's older. Right now, the images that the investigating officers painted of prison for him—after he turns down the job offer—are still horrifyingly easy to conjure.

John's last letter is a frightening attempt at a defense of disco. Rodney still hasn't sufficiently recovered enough to plan a retaliatory strike.

Though he thinks something on the inferiority of Ferris wheels may be in order.

Eventually, his bullies find something better to do than torment him. And, pathetic as it seems, he misses it. He's no longer even worthy of wedgies and a black eye. He wonders if they'd start harassing him again if he promises to cry, act upset, or say "stop hurting me" instead of "you incompetent morons, who taught you how to punch?" Or, " No one will ever employ you unless you're in a prison-to-work program" or "It's genetically unlikely for you to have brown eyes when your mother and father both have blue. Have you ever got a good look at the mailman?"

Almost six months to the day after he leaves, John comes back. The only difference is that it's twenty past twelve, and John shocks him awake as he crawls under Rodney's covers—cold and wet—trying to warm himself.

"John?" he asks, unsure if he's dreaming. It's not the first time he's woken up only to find John gone. On those days, he eats cookies and locks himself in his room until they and the redness around his eyes are gone.

John smiles, but it's not happy. "Yeah, it's me."

"What? Why? Did you run away? Did your parents die? If they did, I'll blackmail my parents into taking you in." Leaning over the side of the bed, Rodney snags a shirt and boxers. He hands them over to John and looks away as John changes into them without commenting; evidently, dry is better than clean.

"Shut up, Rodney," John says, rolling his eyes. And just like that, it's like John never left.

"What happened? Talk. Now. Or I will," Rodney threatens, even as he gives more of his blankets to John and one of his pillows.

"I got kicked out," John says, shrugging. "Didn't do the work."

A part of Rodney swells because it means that John being in school with him wasn't a happy accident. It was a choice. John's choice. "You're coming back?"

"Yeah," John says, "I promised Dad that I'd catch up if he let me re-enroll."

Instead of the many questions Rodney has for John, the least of which being why John never thought to bring it up in a letter, he settles for having fun for the first time in what feels like ever. They stay up for another two hours, discussing all the important developments in their various comic series and agree to hit the store as soon as it opens tomorrow.

Again, they wake to the sound of their mothers yelling (again), but they're both too happy to care.

~XIV~

There's a point in everyone's life, Rodney decides, when they fully realise that the fates actually do conspire, and unwitting and undeserving people, such as himself, are the victims.

He's awkwardly fourteen, because being awkward is a prerequisite—yet another thing John merrily avoids with a lopsided smile and lazy shrug—and puberty has descended on everyone like Captain Trips. And, suddenly, girls are the focus of almost every discussion, something he figured he'd be able to avoid at his school.

Rodney leaves Chess Club with a sigh. Even the rest of the anti-social not-quite-so-equal-peers of his are yammering on about girls they've dated. And some of them are actual girls and not lurid fantasies of Princess Leia.

The only reason he's even going to Chess Club at all is because John started playing football and his mother had insisted he find his own extracurricular activity. Since he's no longer eight, rolling around in the mud with a bunch of other boys fails to hold the same appeal.

John likes it, however, and it leaves Rodney with little choice but to smile and meet him at the park after practice. It also forces Rodney to interact with John's teammates. Normally, Rodney doesn't deign to speak with anyone with less than a 132 (148) IQ with the notable exceptions of Rodney's teachers, his and John's parents and the clerk at the local five and dime.

There's only one team in town and John has special permission to play on it because their school lacks any sports at all. Students at their school, generally, are smart enough to avoid getting beat up in the name of healthy competition. After all, there are a myriad of ways to unleash aggression at their school without the need of bodily trauma.  
For instance, Rodney's favourite sport is making his G.P.A rival cry.

Unlike Rodney, John doesn't like anyone knowing he's smart. To explain his presence on the team, but not school, John tells his teammates that he house he lives in straddles the line between this town and the next. He goes to their high school, but plays on this team because, as John says with a smile, "Their team sucks."

Rodney thinks that if they're stupid enough to buy such rubbish, then even Rodney using a big chart and small words won't do any good. Instead, he smiles whenever he hears John saying this and rolls his eyes.

As he nears the school, he can see Stupid Number Seven, Stupid Number Twenty-Four and Stupid Number Fifty-Three talking with John. Sighing, he trudges forward. The things he suffers for John's benefit.

"…and her tits, man, were like this," Stupid Number Seven says, cupping the air near his padding. Everyone standing around him nods and congratulates him as if he's done something special aside from making a crude comment.

"So, you datin' anyone, Sheppard?" Stupid Number Twenty-Four asks, hitting John's midsection lightly with the back of his hand. Apparently, Rodney notes, he's coming in on the tail end of No-Kiss and Tell. Rodney waits behind the tree, peering around it, waiting until the conversation is over so he can avoid it.

"Yeah," John replies with an easy smile, the one that means that he is lying through his teeth. "Hot, too."

"Liar," Stupid Number Seven, says, and Rodney smiles. "What's her name, then?"

"Meredith," John answers blithely and Rodney's walking toward him with newly forming plans to cause John physical pain. Rodney lets no one call him by his given name—except Jeannie (her purple nurples _hurt_ )— which is nothing more than his parents' way of getting revenge for Rodney being born. The only reason John knows is because of a two-man game of truth or dare they played in a cave when John got them lost on a hike and had broken Rodney's compass. They're both still banned from the Boy Scouts—this being the least of the reasons—but Rodney's okay with that.

"Hey Brain," Stupid Number Fifty-Three says, noticing him as he reaches John's side. "Is it true?"

"What?" Rodney says, more in response to the way Stupid Number Fifty-Three says brain like it's an insult than to the question. The guy, living up to his moniker, misinterprets.

"Is Sheppard dating someone named Meredith?"

A hundred things pass through Rodney's mind, ranging from revenge to way John's actually blushing three inches away from him to things he really doesn't want to think about in front of John's idiotic teammates. He blames the pink on the tips of John's ears for how he answers. "Yes."

"She hot?"

The deepening blush he blames for the next.

"Yeah."

Rodney can't tear his eyes away and John's are fixed resolutely off in the distance. He licks his lips absently and notices John's eyes flicker to them.

"Spill, Sheppard." This is what breaks both of them from whatever fog they were in and it's John who finally manufactures an escape. "Next time. I failed my math test," he states while Rodney barely restrains a laugh, "and Mom made me promise to be home by five to study."

John throws a hot and sweaty arm around Rodney's shoulders and guides him away.

"So," Rodney says as they near John's house, watching his friend out the corner of his eye. "You're dating _Meredith_?"

"Yes?" John says like a question, shooting what Rodney thinks is a hopeful look. "I think so."

"Lucky bastard," Rodney says, smiling. "I hear Meredith's a great catch."

John rolls his eyes, hitting Rodney lightly on the back of his head before ruffling his hair. "Yeah, I suppose."

The blush is back—on both of them—and the smile is blinding.

Three weeks pass after the incident with John and the Three Stupids and Rodney still is ridiculously happy albeit terribly confused. Nothing is different, on the surface at least, but it feels like it is. Rodney's not sure if he's supposed to be doing something or if John is. He's not sure if he's supposed to say something or wait.

All he knows is that sometime between Soap Box cars, Batman versus Superman arguments, and hellish rounds with increasing hormones, Rodney's fallen quite irrevocably hard for John.

It's not something that's "natural" according to everyone he's ever known, but it's normal to him like breathing. He hopes John feels the same way. If he doesn't, well, Rodney doesn't like to think about _that_.

Still, despite the things John says to his teammates, the increasing references to "Meredith", his hot girlfriend, and the looks John gives him that send waves of heat and nausea across Rodney's belly, nothing happens. Rodney wants things to happen, badly. But, just as badly, Rodney doesn't want to mess up anything.

So, he waits.

~XV~

"I'm bored," Rodney complains, poking John in the side. They're both on mats, taking part in the school's effort at "freeing students from inhibiting restrictions" which really means that even at fifteen, they're finding themselves with mandatory naptime.

Nodding, John sighs. "I'm too bored to sleep. Maybe…we should leave?"

That gets Rodney's attention. They both have enough credits to graduate. This has been true for the last _three years_. Rodney's just been waiting on John. At first, it was his height—who wants to go to college when they're four foot ten? Then it was football - after all, colleges can't let a thirteen year old play quarterback. Then it was the car thing. "Really?"

John nods, swallowing thickly. "Dad says he'll buy me any car I want when I graduate."

Snorting, Rodney rolls his eyes. "Figures. My academic progress has been halted all this time while you've been holding out for better gifts."

"You didn't have to wait for me," John says reasonably.

That is even a bigger joke than waiting for some undoubtedly very expensive, very fast, very pretty car. "Of course I did."

When John announces his intention to graduate, the teachers cast mournful stares in his direction. He's always polite and smiling and charming and correct about ninety-eight percent of the time.

Conversely, when Rodney follows suit, their teachers cast barely concealed gleeful grins in his direction. Rodney bets as soon as the door hits his ass when he leaves, they'll be celebrating. After all, who wants to be constantly corrected by someone so much younger, yet so very much smarter?

"You'll go far," his science teacher says, nodding as he does. Rodney hears the unspoken, "hopefully so far I'll never have to ever see or hear you again, please, if the world is kind." He files it the back of his mind, noting to make sure to thank him in his Nobel acceptance speech. _If it weren't for the utter incompetence of my high school science professor, I never would have had the drive to prove so many people wrong._

Dave's sitting on the hood of John's new car when they leave the building for the last time, grumbling under his breath about why he always has to do this shit. John ignores the bitching and snatches the keys from his hand, shoves Rodney in the passenger side and Dave in the backseat, and drives recklessly fast all the way home, driving over three curbs, running two red lights, and taking at least ten years off Rodney's life.

He'll never admit this to John—seriously, never—but he thinks John's car looks ridiculous. It has a hideous bird on it that covers most of the hood. For the rest, it looks like Car (KITT, according to John) to him, despite how often John waxes poetic about the tires and the shiny, shiny paint and other things Rodney doesn't care much about. It still doesn't stop him from burying himself in the manuals, learning how each part works, in case John ever needs a mechanic. He tells himself that this doesn't make him pathetic. Sometimes he believes it.

When John passes the driver's test on the first try (the day after his sixteenth birthday), he suspects his father's hand—well, wallet—but he doesn't say anything. John pulls up to his house all smiles and horrible laughter and takes Rodney on a long drive to an open field. They eat a packed lunch, watch clouds, and discuss plans for college.

It's the happiest Rodney's been in a long time, and John, too, when they both agree to go somewhere far enough away to necessitate living away from home and on campus.

~XVI~

Their official graduation from high school leaves them with perfect grade point averages and enough glowing recommendations to make any good academic cry. They can go anywhere for college, anywhere. The thought is enough to make Rodney giddy. John shrugs it off, applies to M.I.T and is accepted two weeks later.

Rodney applies everywhere despite the fact he already knows where he's going. It's a sense of masochism, he thinks, that leads him to wonder what offers he'll get from where. There are better colleges, colleges more suited to his academic dreams, colleges with better financial offers. Still, M.I.T. has the one thing they all lack and it's not really a hard decision for Rodney at all.

John's father "donates" a ridiculous amount of money to the school, and then magically, Rodney and John find themselves sharing a room together that was meant for four.

Now, Rodney thinks, things will change. They share a room, a private space. They're far away from their parents and home. It's been almost a year since John made his awkward non-confession and Rodney's been eagerly anticipating when things will become…more. They're both away at college and Rodney's brain skitters with all the opportunities and not the least are ones involving John.

Maybe, Rodney muses five months into the school year, John's waiting for him. He's sixteen now—has been for a few months—and he wants it to mean something. The waiting is making his skin itch. He's never had much for patience and it's wearing about as thin as he can take. He walks toward the dorms, flip-flopping between talking to John and just kissing him.

"I'll see you tomorrow." John's back is to Rodney. There's a short, brunette girl in front of him. She's giving John a demure smile and batting her lashes. It's disgusting.

"Yeah, tomorrow," John agrees and—before Rodney's stomach untwists itself (which it will when this whole scene turns out to be anything but what it looks like)—he leans down and kisses her.

"John," he breathes out quietly. But, Rodney realises as they both turn to him—the girl unaware and John uncomfortable—not quietly enough.

"Is this your friend?" the girl asks, and Rodney seriously questions the never-hit-women logic.

John swallows, nods. "Yeah, Rodney. This is Candi."

Candy? _Candy_ , Rodney's mind screams. John's dating—the word twists in his gut—a stripper. Or a girl destined to become one. "With an 'i'," she adds with a smile.

"Did your parents hate you, too?" he asks, to her bemusement.

John scowls at him, but says nothing.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Candi-with-an-i asks, friendly. Sorority girl, Rodney guesses, even as he sends a pointed glare at John. "You can double with us tomorrow."

Rodney opens his mouth to answer, not quite sure what's going to come out, but John cuts him off. "He's seeing someone back home," John explains smoothly, and adds at Rodney's thunderous expression. "Meredith."

Rodney recoils as if slapped. "I need to go," he bites out. "I'm sure you need to make sure she gets back for her turn on the dancer's pole. Pimps hate it when their girls are late, I hear."

He walks off, not waiting for John's response, ignoring her indignant screaming from behind him, and doesn't stop until he finds a nearly deserted café. After he downs twelve coffees, he heads back home.

For the first time since the day they met, Rodney's unhappy to see John, who is waiting for him in their room. The air between them is heavy, tense and he's embarrassingly close to tears. John clears his throat, expectantly, but says nothing, apparently waiting for him to go first. He can't.

Rodney frowns, stares at the wall. He's never felt so angry, so helpless as he does now. He can feel the weight of John's gaze on him, but he refuses to turn just yet.

He misses when they were younger because it was so simple then. Not any more. Now, it's a mass of confusion and the beginnings of resentment, which he hopes never has time to take hold.

"I don't understand what your problem is," John says finally, breaking through the silence of their room. Rodney's been on the receiving end of beatings at the hands of people twice the size of John, been called every name in the book, but none have ever hurt as much as those words do.

"Here," Rodney says, pulling out a handful of torn notebook pieces, numbers scribbled on them, from a small box on his desk. He shoves them into John's hands.

"What are these?"

"Catherine, Genetics major. Doreen, Mathematics. Sonya, Journalism. Brian, Microbiology," Rodney lists by rote. "And there were others, but that's neither here nor there."

"What are you trying to say? Are you trying to prove something?" Rodney stares at John for a moment, wondering when his friend went from so incredibly smart to so incredibly stupid. Instead of saying something, he takes a stack of envelopes from the locked drawer on his desk and gives it to John.

John looks through the pile. Acceptance letters to about two dozen colleges. There are invitations to symposiums and conferences, dates corresponding with John's games, John's tests, John's plans. He hears the unspoken why on John's tongue.

"Because of you, of course. Even if we've never…as long as there was a chance…" Rodney trails off uncomfortably. "Anyhow, point is…I wanted to come here because you did, even if it meant giving up a better college. I could always go elsewhere for my graduate studies. And there will always be more places to share my knowledge, which will no doubt increase with time. I said no to those people because they weren't you. It never felt like I was sacrificing anything, because I had you. But, apparently, that was all a horrible misconception of mine."

"I'm," Rodney gestures with his hand toward John, not knowing how to complete his thought, "and I once thought I'd do anything if it meant…change this," he gestures to himself, "if I thought it meant…"he trails off, "I can't be "Meredith" for you, John. I won't." He's not a girl, he doesn't want to be one, and he's never desired to be anyone's dirty little secret, least of all John's.

With that, Rodney turns, walking out of the room with as much dignity he can muster, and doesn't stop until he reaches the university lab. When he gets there, he leaves his dignity at the door, which he carefully locks behind him, and doesn't retrieve it until he leaves, red-eyed and exhausted.

For the next two weeks, they don't speak to each other. It's shockingly easy for Rodney to avoid John, which is surprising only until he realises it's because he's never tried before.

"I need to talk to you," John says, cornering Rodney at their door as he's rushing to an early morning psychology class they're all forced to take—bloody humanities.

Rodney frowns. "I don't want or need to talk to you," he says, bodily pushing John to the side. "If I did have to inclination to do so, I'd simply lie down in the middle of down-town traffic. It'd be easier. Less painful, too," he adds, far too honestly for what he originally wants to say. "Now, if you don't mind, Professor Shelby locks any stragglers out of her class and there's a test today."

John's jaw clenches, but he lets Rodney pass, and Rodney feels John's eyes follow him the length of the hallway.

The next time John tries, he's not so lucky. He wakes up at three in the morning with John sitting on his bed, pinning him down with the top sheet. This is not like any of the fantasies Rodney's had of waking to find John this close to him.

"We're talking," John says, firmly, "now."

"Fine, fine," Rodney says tiredly. "Say whatever it is you have to say, make any cruel observation you want, tell me exactly why I'm disgusting to you, remind me of your devoted love to your new stripper girlfriend and then let me get back to fucking sleep."

"Rodney," John says, scowling, "fucking Christ. No, no. I'm not letting you distract me by pissing me off. I have something for you."

"Unless it's a mint copy of Batman #11, I don't want it."

"Here," John says, thrusting an envelope into Rodney's hands.

Rodney opens it to find a check for a disgusting amount of money and letters from six separate colleges only happy to have Rodney enroll for the summer.

"What the hell is this?"

John gives Rodney a look that questions the results of all the independent IQ tests he's taken. "You can go to any school you want to with that. You don't need to be here."

He's. Being. Paid. To. Leave? Rodney takes a deep breath, and another, and another before the absolute fury bubbles over and then he's throwing John off of him so he can stand as he yells, which will be as long and as loud as necessary to get his point across.

"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL, JOHN? YOU'RE IN SUCH A HURRY TO GET RID OF ME?" Rodney pants heavily. "And, by the way, you absolute utter asshole, do you honestly think there's a college anyplace in the fucking world that wouldn't _pay_ for me to grace their campus?"

"But—"

"BUT? BUT _WHAT?_ I'm not a goddamned charity case. I don't need your fucking money. I don't want it. If you wanted me out of your room, you could have just asked. I'm sure _Candi-with-an-i_ would appreciate fucking somewhere that's not a back alley or parked car."

John just stares at him, so Rodney plows on uninterrupted. "You…you are such a total asshole I can't even explain it and I'm the kid famous for making his teachers _cry_. You know, I never thought this would ever happen—not in all the years you've been my best…my only friend, but I seriously don't want to see your face right now."

And then, suddenly, Rodney's worn out, deflating as he sighs. He has terrible luck, obviously, because he feels like he's breaking up with John and they weren't even together in the first place—which everyone knew but him, apparently.

John is suspiciously quiet. Over the past ten years, Rodney's never known John not to come back at one of his rants, never known him to be this quiet this long when it's just the two of them. John only clams up when he's upset about his family or some personal thing. But John only blinks a few times, then leaves the envelope where it is, lying down on his own bed, back facing Rodney.

Rodney tears the envelope up with exaggerated noisiness and pretends not to hear the quick breaths on John's side of the room. He's back in bed, too, now and they both pretend to sleep.

The weeks pass after that. They still live together and they still avoid each other. Rodney spends all his time with the science department, or at least the few parts of it he doesn't consider too moronic. John trades Candi-with-an-i in for Emily, then for Theresa, then Rachael and Debbie and Mindy and Tanya. These things don't last long and John never seems any different, any happier in the beginning, middle, or end of these relationships. He wants to say something, but it's no longer his place.

Instead, he spends a disturbing amount of time in the labs—ignoring the lingering attention of one of his professors (seriously, ew), pretending he's giving John space, when he's really hiding so he doesn't have to have it thrown in his face what he can't have.

"He shouldn't look at you like that." Rodney turns around, nearly dropping a beaker full of hydrochloric acid on the floor and sees John standing in the doorway, but turns away before his face can give him away. This is the first time John's spoken to him since offering to ship him off like he's a problem to be handled.

Rodney has the sick urge to give into Doctor Slimeball's attentions just to piss off John. Instead, he lies, "I have no idea what you're talking about. If this is another attempt to push me to leave campus, it's not going to work."

"Goddamnit, Rodney," John says angrily, and Rodney finds himself looking up despite himself. "How long are you going to be mad at me?"

 _Until my chest stops feeling like it's a gaping hole whenever I see you, hear you, think about you at all,_ Rodney thinks. He says, "I'm not mad at you."

"Right, that's why this is the longest conversation we've had in weeks."

"This may actually surprise you, Sheppard, but I'm here to study," Rodney bites out, adding, "and I know _you've_ been busy."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Rodney snorts. "I think they installed one of those machines in the girls' bathroom, like you find in a deli. Each of them holds onto their numbered tickets, hoping you'll choose them next. The line is likely viewable from space, like the Great Wall."

"I don't even know why I bother," John says, looking hurt and angry.

Rodney feels bad, but refuses to let it show. "I should have asked myself the same thing years ago."

"Fine," John says, turning around to leave, "I give up."

Rodney breathes as soon as John disappears from the doorway. "I wish I could say the same thing," he tells the empty room.

His experiment is nothing more than a mess on the table and he slumps down into the chair, burying his face in his arms. Rodney doesn't know he's fallen asleep until Doctor Slimeball wakes him three hours later, inviting Rodney to stay at his place.

Rodney doesn't go there, but he doesn't go home either, feels like he doesn't have one.

"Where the hell were you?" John demands as soon as he walks in the door after class the next day. John has dark circles around his eyes and his expression is bordering on frantic.

Setting his bag on his bed, Rodney relents, the exhaustion of the past few weeks catching up to him all at once and feeling exponentially worse. "I went to the library to read for a while, fell asleep on the top floor, and got locked in accidentally."

Rodney looks at his bed, decides sleep is something he needs to consider. He pushes his bag to the floor and takes off his day-old clothes, leaving him in nothing but a pair of boxers. "I didn't feel like dealing with Idiot One and Idiot Two from security, so I waited until the janitor came by and unlocked the doors. Then, I had roughly two thousand four hundred cubic centimeters of coffee, and slept through my classes with my eyes open. Which, by the way, is far more pleasant than having to pay attention to the babble I'm usually forced to endure." Rodney doesn't know why he's even speaking to John, but he writes it off to his usual penchant for babbling when tired.

"Shut up," John says, curses, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"What?" Rodney asks, flinging himself on the bed. He's too tired to deal with anything, least of all a tantrum from John, despite it being only the second one he's ever had to witness.

"I was this close, Rodney," John says hold up his fingers a millimeter apart, "to breaking into that bastard's office and finding where he lived."

"Who?"

"Professor Can't-Keep-It-In-His-Pants," John bites out, "I thought he got you to go home with him."

"That's ridiculous," Rodney says, and then, after thinking about the direction of this conversation and the one prior, adds, "But so what if I did?"

"Are you kidding me?" John looks like he's a second away from apoplexy. Huh.

Rodney decides against caution. "Yeah, so what if I did? Why the hell do you even care?"

John just stares at him for a few long seconds before storming toward the door, muttering what sounds like, "So fucking stupid," under his breath, and more loudly. "I'll be back later. Much later."

And then Rodney's alone, again. He stares at the ceiling wondering just what the hell is going on and why everything's so fucking confusing and hopes to high hell that his brain can make sense of anything in time for their finals next week.

He tries to sleep, but can't stop the never-ending questions and commentary and ever-worsening scenarios about how everything will end—and end badly—between him and John in his head.

There's only one thing that Rodney can do to clear his brain just long enough for him to fall asleep. John's not coming back, so Rodney can just do this here and not in the shower. Hopefully, the smell will dissipate by the time John returns. And even if it doesn't, Rodney's not sure if he even cares anymore.

He slips his hands down his boxers, grips his cock, already hard, which is its default setting anytime any of his five senses are in conjunction with John, the bastard.

Rodney has a plethora of fantasies involving John, each kinkier than the last, but this time he strokes himself to completion with nothing more than an image in his mind of John holding his hand and smiling. When he comes, he murmurs, "John, oh God, you asshole, damn you."

The last thing Rodney thinks before falling asleep is how truly pathetic he really is; the last thing he imagines is the whisper of fingertips on his skin. When he wakes, he realises that one is still the truth and the other is still a lie.

Finals are upon them and they have neither the time nor energy to fight anymore, so they walk the fine line of an unannounced truce. Rodney notices distantly the lack of pretty faces calling on John and he tries not to feel a surge of happiness.

He's also badgering his professors into either allowing him to circumvent prerequisites for the upper level classes or letting him have the chance to test out of them. They were annoyingly insistent that he at least _try_ first year college classes before attempting anything harder. It's bad enough that he's woefully late starting college in the first place. At this rate, he'll be in his _twenties_ before he gets his first PhD. His arguments that he was probably smarter than anyone in the graduating classes ten years running don't work any better than loudly exclaiming he's in Mensa and shouldn't be forced to do work a concussed ten-year old could do.

And just as quickly as they come, finals are over and Rodney's once again facing time alone with John. There's the packing they need to do and the drive back home. That's not even taking into consideration the upcoming summer, in which they'd customarily spend every waking minute in each other's pockets.

When he reaches the dorm, he can hear John talking on the phone. Probably one of his college airhead cupcakes, Rodney thinks disparagingly. He opens the door and notices: a) John's smiling. b) The room is empty except for two duffle bags on Rodney's bed. And c) The words coming out of John's mouth sound way too much like his mother's name.

"You know how my father is, Mrs. McKay."

Rodney opens his mouth to ask John just what in the hell he's doing talking to his mother, especially about John's father, but John simply gets up and covers Rodney's mouth with his hand.

"Yeah, it's a shame. It's a nice a cabin. Fully stocked. Running water and electricity."

He takes a step back, but John's hand moves with him. Rodney's head is too full of questions to stop him. He simply puts his bag down and cocks his head in question.

"Every three days, sure. Without fail."

Every three days what?

"Two weeks before semester starts again? Yeah, okay."

Rodney stares at John, a million questions evident on his face, and his voice is muffled by John's hand who smiles at him, finally pulling his hand away.

"I figured that since Rodney and I spend our summers together anyhow, we might as well do it out of your hair this year," John says with a laugh. Rodney opens his mouth to argue, but John pulls a crinkled and worn paper from his pocket and hands it to him.

Looking down, Rodney stares at the contract he'd made with John years ago, promising one favour, any favour. Despite the wording, it's not binding. Rodney can simply say no, turn around and walk away. But, Rodney knows, that not fulfilling this promise—walking away from this promise—was walking away from everything. With a grimace, he nods his agreement, hands the paper back to John, whose smile widens.

"Yeah, we'll see you then. You have a good summer, too. I'll have Rodney call you when we get there. Bye."

When John hangs up, there's a long moment of silence between them, only broken up when Rodney loses the battle of curiosity, yells, "What the hell was that about? Where the hell is our stuff? Where the hell are we going? Every three days what? Two weeks before next semester what? Explain. Now. Or I'll incinerate that contract and the person holding it."

"Jesus, Rodney," John says easily, "we're going on vacation. Our stuff's in storage off-campus. No sense in dragging most of that stuff home, and back. Something at my dad's work came up and he had to bail on some month long thing he had planned with Mom. So, I got him to let us use the cabin for the summer." John frowns. "Truthfully, both of our parents were far too eager for us to be not home. It's sad, really."

"And?"

"Oh, we need to check in every once in a while with your mom. Only thing my dad said was to leave the place in the same condition we found it. Nice, huh? We're to go home for the two weeks before the next semester starts. Not sure why, though."

"Misguided attempt by our parents to pretend they want us around?" Rodney offers, fairly well used to this by now.

"Probably." John shrugs. Suddenly, Rodney feels a hundred times more forgiving than he normally is with other people. Yes, almost everything with John sucks—really fucking sucks, actually—but Rodney knows—distant sibling and parents each aside—that John's all he has and he's all John has in terms of family.

The magnanimousness he's feeling now will pass, Rodney thinks, as soon as the family-induced pit in his stomach ebbs and he remembers just why he's spent the better part of his first year of college simultaneously wanting and cursing John Sheppard, but it's enough that he shrugs, grins, and shoulders his duffel bag without further comment or complaint.

"Ready?" John asks, and Rodney hears a million continuations of this question, but his answer is the same regardless: "Yes."

He falls asleep sometime after the second hour in the car. A conversation debating the benefits of a graphic user interface versus command line interface morphs into small talk about finals, which easily bleeds into stilted and awkward conversation about the weather, of all things.

When he (barely) wakes, it's dusk. John's driving down an increasingly bumpy dirt road, pulling to a stop in front of a log cabin. It's nothing like the camping he and John endured during their brief sojourn in Boy Scouts. It's the sort of camping that would cause Rodney's dad to make unsubtle comments about someone's masculinity. Luckily for Rodney, he's given up caring what his father thinks years ago.

"Hey, buddy," John says, nudging Rodney's arm as he continues the slow process of increasing his cognitive awareness. "We're here," he adds unnecessarily.

"Oh, and here I thought we were taking a detour to get familiar with this town's Norman Bates."

John just laughs and pops the trunk. The weight of the past few months is edging back. He doesn't want to think about it yet, so he helps John carry their things to the porch of the cabin. Hopefully, he can have something to eat before he's made to deal with anything more difficult than peanut butter versus turkey sandwiches.

It's nice inside and somehow, despite knowing John's parents the way he does, it's a surprise. Log cabins aren't supposed to be nicely furnished or lacking in dust or various sorts of woodland creatures. They're definitely not supposed to have refrigerators or televisions that run on a state-of-the-art generator.

"It's smaller than I remember," John says. After they set down their bags, John begins building a fire and Rodney supervises.

"This place is so much your father," Rodney replies with a snort. "When did he buy it anyhow?"

"Oh, when I was twelve? Maybe? Remember that year when I was all set to go on some two-week long family vacation and then my brother dumped me off on your doorstep three days later?"

Rodney thinks for a moment and suddenly has a flash of a sulky twelve-year old John and a sulkier seventeen-year-old Dave on his doorstep. He had ushered John in and slammed the door in Dave's face without even asking why John was there. He vaguely recalls his mother being surprised to see John at dinner that evening.

"Yeah. It was hard to decide who was more pissed off. You or your brother."

John grins and walks toward the kitchen. "He met this girl in town and was mad that he had to miss his date to bring me home."

Rodney laughs. Sibling baiting was a national competition between them. Though, to be fair, both Dave and Jeannie had just cause to have them both killed by the mob and buried in an unmarked pit.

"I guess he meant it when he said fully stocked," John comments and hands Rodney both a beer and a sandwich.

He takes a sandwich for himself and tucks the rest of the twelve-pack under his arm and sits in front of the couch.

"Your dad won't mind?" Rodney says, sitting next to John on the floor.

John shrugs. "Don't care. He'll survive, I'm sure."

Sandwiches gone, both John and Rodney opt for another beer, both of them too lazy to get more food. Rodney figures the fridge will still be there in the morning and it's been a terrifyingly long day (week, month, year).

"Let's play a game," John suggests as he pops open his third (or was it fourth?) beer.

Rodney glances over at him blearily. "What the hell sort of game can two guys play—by themselves—in a log cabin in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the night, after four cans of beer? Do I even _want_ to know?"

John laughs and Rodney feels a compelling need to poke him in the side of his head. Twice, for good measure.

"I was sort of thinking Truth or Dare."

"Truth or Dare," Rodney repeats flatly. "Do you remember the last time me'n'you played that game?"

"In the cave," John says, awash with nostalgia. "After we got lost on that hike."

"After _you_ got us lost."

"And it was fun. I learned your first name."

"And wasn't that the greatest thing ever in the history of my life."

"And I ate a worm."

"Which, to be fair, is no worse than your brother's cooking."

"And you admitted to playing Barbie dolls with Jeannie."

"She's evil. If I said no, she'd have gotten me _grounded._ "

"And I belched—in tune—the first three stanzas of _Light My Fire._ "

"A classic, no doubt."

"Rodney," John says, whining. "Please. It'll be fun."

"Oh, all right. But no dares that have more than a ten percent chance of leading to physical injuries. If I end up spending my summer in a cast or with any sort of lasting damage, so help me I will shave your head while you sleep and tattoo a dick on your forehead like some prison house gangster."

John responds by snorting beer out of his nose. Typical.

"You first," Rodney says as John tugs off his beer-soaked shirt and tosses it to the side.

"Truth or Dare," John says, and even though he's pointedly not looking at John—or his chest—Rodney can feel his vibrant enthusiasm.

Normally, Rodney can peg everyone playing this game in five minutes and what they want you to choose. Some like to ask stupidly embarrassing questions and others like to force stupidly dangerous (or embarrassing) dares. Their game won't, can't be like that.

Rodney glances at John, takes a drink, and says, "Dare."

Emotions flit across John's face, surprise, annoyance, determination, and it's the last that makes Rodney worry. "Take off your shirt."

Something in his expression causes John to add, "If I have to sit around like this, I'm not going to be the only one uncomfortable."

"Whatever," Rodney says, taking off his shirt and tossing it on John's. "Truth or Dare?"

"Truth," John replies defiantly, giving Rodney his most unsubtle "who's the man and who's the pussy, now?" face.

There are only two kinds of truths they can ask each other. The first type are the stupidly pointless like what did you eat for breakfast in the cafeteria last week, or what was your favourite commercial during the Superbowl. The only other truths they can ask each other are the type that are painful to ask, to answer, to acknowledge.

Rodney wants to ask many things, but he's neither drunk enough to do it or to think asking is a good idea in the first place. Instead, he asks the first thing that pops into his mind that he doesn't already know the answer to. "Who do you like better, your mom or your dad?"

More expressions flicker across John's face, none of them help the unsettling feeling Rodney has in his gut. "Um. Both. Neither. So, Truth or Dare."

Even Rodney knows not to call John on his non-answer, which really says more than anything else. "Dare."

It's a shitty thing to do, but Rodney doesn't care. As with the truths, in this game, there are only two types of dares. The first are there to break up the monotony, something to add an element of silliness. There's no one else around and any teasing between them is going to be fraught with affection and fondness. The second type, the one Rodney plans on using as much as possible, is as a means of avoidance. There's hardly anything John can dare him to do that will be more painful or embarrassing than actually answering the questions John intends to ask.

He was set up and this is as intentional as it gets. Rodney can't think of why, his mind moving as fast as alcohol allows to figure it out and all he comes up with is a vast blankness that unnerves him. He's not used to not knowing, not guessing, and this whole situation feels like a minefield.

"Um," John frowns, clearly casting around for a dare that won't be too lame. "I dare you to…sing that song you hate."

Rolling his eyes, Rodney steadily works the tab off his latest can. "Which one?"

"She Blinded Me With Science," John says, grin triumphant.

"My hate for you is everlasting and infinite," he replies, but sings the song anyhow, making a point to be as off-key as he can manage. "Truth or Dare, asshole."

John taps his lip, pretending to consider. "Truth."

"Are you going to drag me out hiking?" he asks, hedging away from anything of importance. John, understandably, looks angry.

Taking a deep breath, John bites out, "Yes. Truth or Dare."

Blithely, Rodney answers, "Dare."

"Jesus Christ," John mutters under his breath. "Um. I dare you to…ask truth next time."

"Lame, John," Rodney complains. "That's seriously lame. And, I think it's against the rules."

"It's truth or dare, Rodney," John shoots back, "there's only the rule about doing what you say you will. And if you don't, you have to, I dunno, do worse shit."

Huffing, Rodney crosses his arms across his chest. "Fine. I'll choose truth next time. Truth or Dare?"

"Dare." John smiles.

With exasperation, Rodney rolls his eyes. "I dare you to, let me think, drink a beer in one gulp." God, he sucks at this game.

With all the concentration of someone that has already had too much to drink, John gulps down his entire beer, most of it poring out the sides of his mouth. Rodney, graciously, decides not to hold it against him.

"Truth," Rodney says, "not that I have a choice."

"Did you ever fuck or mess around with Professor Slimeball?" John asks, eyes sharp, voice tight.

Rodney's shock at the question is enough that it takes him a few minutes to even process it. "What the hell, John? Of course not! Why the hell would you even think I would?"

"I don't know! He was always around you, making cow-eyes at you. Rumour was he had a thing for guys like you."

"Guys like me?" Rodney asks, then shakes his head. He'll deal with that later. "For one, John, he's like _fifty_ or something. Seriously. Ew. Secondly, I have no idea where he's been and I have no aching desire to catch the plague or anything else from him. Thirdly, he's my professor. Lastly, well, suffice it to say the reasons why no, no, no, never, my god, never isn't long enough are numerous and detailed."

"Fine, I believe you," John says, placating, offering him another beer. There aren't enough beers in the world, Rodney thinks, to make this evening anything other than a disaster in the waiting. "Truth," John adds absently after Rodney takes a fortifying gulp of beer.

"What was with all the girls?" Rodney hears himself ask before he can censor himself. This was the one thing he wasn't going to ask, never was ever going to ask. Damn it. He scans the ground and finds the cans of beer multiplying as he tries to count. That's…definitely not what was supposed to happen.

John mumbles something around the lip of the can. Rodney looks up sharply, gesturing with his hand for him to repeat himself. "Trying to make you jealous."

It takes a while for the synapses in Rodney's brain to fire correctly. Rodney's brain is slow and his body slower, but his anger matches pace. That's why it takes a couple of minutes after the words are spoken that they finally make sense, then things snap in place, and Rodney's fist connects with John's face.

Even though John's a _fucking bastard_ and Rodney _cannot fucking believe_ that he spent most of his first year of college _with his head in a fucking mess_ because he thought John couldn't _keep it in his fucking pants_ , he still punches Rodney back, the _asshole_.

It doesn't stop there because Rodney's _livid_ and all the anger and all the aggression and all the months and months and months of doubting himself and wanting John and hating every single girl he ever had the misfortune to _glance_ at is finally bubbling to the top. He grapples with John, rolling on the wooden floor, the feel of mostly empty beer cans crush beneath them. Occasionally, either he or John will actually get a shot in, but they're both too drunk, too uncoordinated for much more than rolling around.

Then suddenly, something changes, because their mouths are biting at each other's lips. This isn't what Rodney expects his first kiss to be like. Not because it's John, because he's _always_ thought it'd be John. It's because it's angry and desperate and horrible. His fantasies are always soft and sweet and romantic in a way that he'd rather die than admit to thinking. Then, he changes it, feels John changing with him, and now there's no more teeth and the anger bleeds away and it's just their lips, soft and sweet, moving against each other like he's always wanted.

Still, when he pulls back, he slumps to the side. With the fight and the kiss and the stupid questions, he's just done. At least for a little while. His brain needs rebooting and some serious time just processing, but he doesn't think he'll get it anytime soon.

In a daze, panting, he and John recline against the back of the couch once more, posture a mockery of where they started their game. They both fail to look at each other. He doesn't know if he wants to reach out to John, touch him again, touch him _more_ or run and hide somewhere. While he's debating, he can practically hear John thinking. He's just not sure he wants to know specifics.

"Um," John says intelligently and Rodney can't help but agree. Um, indeed.

"I'm sure you can come up with any number of reasons why this happened," Rodney says, rambling off the most likely. "Just figure out whichever you want to blame, I'll nod, agree, and we'll go to bed and pretend this was an incredibly awkward and embarrassing dream we shared, only we won't be talking about to know we had the same dream at the same time and wow, am I dizzy, I think the only cure for that is more beer and I think this is the last one, so dibs."

John starts to tilt and doesn't stop until his head is in Rodney's lap and he's staring up at Rodney with wide, fierce eyes, all determination and bravado. "It wasn't the beer," he says, slurring the words, but utterly and completely serious.

He closes his eyes for a second, trying to not only block out John's face so he can think clearly, but the way John's hair tickles his thighs and how his stomach is churning more from this than beer ever could. This, Rodney knows, is it. He and John can be more or they can be nothing. They are so beyond a middle road that it's not even funny. And, Rodney thinks, it's all up to him now. If there ever was a time when he has to be right, when he _needs_ to be right, it's now. Of course, he realises mirthlessly, it just happens to involve things Rodney knows less about than why Thomas Dolby is popular.

When he opens them again, he finds John's hand halfway to his face, and missing by a mile. He stares at John for a moment and thinks about every doubt, every insecurity, every day that he spent questioning just where he went wrong. Then, he thinks of how every moment of his life is saturated with John to the point where he can't even recall the lack of him.

And then, Rodney realises that it will never be enough.

Smiling, Rodney meets him halfway, snatching John's hand and threading their fingers together. "John," he says, "you're such a moron. You do realise that? They're going to kick you out of Mensa and you'll have to give up being my arch nemesis and you won't be able to stop me when my evil machinations begin and I fall to the dark side and start taking over the world."

It's not much of a declaration and Rodney's not sure that even another case of beer will get him any closer to saying those three words that are always between them, but it doesn't seem necessary.

With a squeeze to his hand and a kiss to his belly, John shakes his head, still in Rodney's lap, and laughs.

This is how it (doesn't) end.

~LXXXVIII~

Sitting in his chair, Rodney idly reads the latest in physics, scoffing every few hundred words, wondering how stupid became a prerequisite for getting published. The new people in his field are scarily moronic and it keeps him up late at night, fondling his Nobel.

It's then that John usually says he's not into threesomes and makes Rodney put it away.

He places the journal down and sighs. Dealing with incompetence always makes him hungry.

A sharp thwack to his foot gets his attention. He looks up and sees John glaring at him. It takes him a few moments before he remembers. "Right. Truth?"

John says something, but all he can hear is mumbling. Another thwack to his leg and he thinks _on_ at his hearing aid. He pretends to forget he leaves it off, but it's really an effective way to ignore all the many stupid people that like to talk to him.

"Did you ever let that Professor Grabby Hands bang you?" John asks, eyeing him with suspicion.

"I've been with you for…"Rodney says, trying to calculate far too many years in his head, more than half of them married, "forever and I have answered that question more times than I care to recall. Will you _please_ let it go?"

That's when Rodney sees John's lips twitching as he tries not to laugh.

Rodney bangs John's shin with his cane and glares. "Asshole."

"Come on," John says, "I hear there's pudding today."

"Oh?" Rodney slowly gets to his feet. John grabs his hand as soon as he's next to him and twines their fingers as they shuffle off toward the mess.

John whispers loudly, "We can take it back to our room…" John's hairy eyebrows quirk up and down exaggeratedly. "If you're up for it."

Rodney grins. "Isn't that what I should be asking you?"

The loud, braying laugh that echoes through the room warms him. (And totally causes Mrs. Bergman to jump up and trigger her chair alarm.)

John moves closer, bumps their shoulders, and leads him down the hallway.

As always, Rodney follows.  



End file.
